


If Wishes Were Horses

by Gabrielle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, F/M, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabrielle/pseuds/Gabrielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things end before they ever begin, and sometimes the end is a new beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If Wishes Were Horses

If Wishes Were Horses

He’s not really sure why she’s in his bed, but he’s drunk and angry and horny and not inclined to look a gift shag in the mouth. So the fact that he’s never thought of Tara this way before really doesn’t mean much right now. What matters is that she’s warm and willing and _here_, more here than he’d be comfortable with if he was sober enough to think.

He’s inside her before he really knows what he’s doing and he’s sorry the minute it happens. The minute he realizes she wasn’t ready and that he’s hurt her. He can smell the blood, knows he’s the first man she’s ever been with, and he wishes he’d been slower and more gentle. But she doesn’t protest, just urges him on.

It’s clumsy, the way she moves against him, and for a moment he thinks uncharitably that if she’s like this with Willow, it’s no wonder the girl went looking for magic somewhere else. But then Tara looks at him, really looks at him, with the sweetest, kindest eyes and he wonders if there _is_ magic anywhere else. Because the way she’s looking at him makes him feel more real, more whole, more _enough_ than he’s felt in...well, in longer than he’s inclined to think about; it’s too much.

The sex is finished almost as soon as it began. Quick and awkward and not very satisfying for either of them, he knows. Spike reaches out as Tara gets up and puts her clothes on. He wants her to stay, wants to try to at least give her a reason not to regret this completely. He’s stunned when she looks at him with those eyes again and smiles so gently that a piece of him breaks in two.

He wants to speak, to say _something_, anything, that will let her know that he’s sorry, that he wanted to do more for her, to _be_ more for her, but the words don’t come. It doesn’t matter though, because there’s so much understanding in her eyes. She walks back to him and leans down, kissing him. Her lips are as sweet as sugar and as soft as butterfly wings and he prays to whatever god might hear the prayers of a chipped vampire that he’ll never forget that kiss. Her hands are as gentle as her eyes as she strokes his cheek.

“You’re a good man,” she says as she leaves.

It will be a long time before Spike knows what she means.

  
The End.


	2. Beggars on Horseback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tara is gone but two people still remember.

Beggars on Horseback

The tread on the stairs isn’t Buffy’s cadence and Spike’s a bit surprised. When the scent tells him it’s the little witch, he’s more surprised still. They haven’t talked much since she got back. No big shock there; they hadn’t exactly been mates before. But he’s been struggling to find the right words to tell her how sorry he is that Tara was murdered and maybe now he’ll have a chance to say them.

“Spike?”

The light is dim and Willow is obviously having difficulty seeing him. He has no such trouble, one of the few perks he sees in being a vampire these days. Damn the soul.

“Over here, pet.”

If she’s surprised at his use of the casual endearment, she doesn’t say so, simply walks over to the bed he’s lounging on and sits down next to him.

“I have something for you. I’ve been trying to think of the right thing to give you, seeing as how I know she’d want you to have something to remember her by and all and this just... Well, here.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a thin chain, a small charm of some sort dangling from it, and hands it to him. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it and he quirks an eyebrow at her.

“She told me.”

Of all the things Willow could have said, that’s the most shocking. Somehow, he never thought Willow would find out about that night. But then again, Tara was far from an easy read, as he knew all too well. Guess she took that “honest and open” stuff pretty far.

“Did she now?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Guess you must hate me.”

“Nah, not really. I mean, yeah, at first, okay, but... Tara told me it was her idea and... well... I’m really not the one to throw stones... Okay, yeah, I guess maybe I am still mad, but...”

Spike lets her words drift off into nothingness. He understands what she’s feeling and frankly, if the situation were reversed, he’s not sure he’d be giving a trinket to the one night stand of his one true love.

“If it makes you feel better, pet, she didn’t have much of a time of it.”

Willow chuckles, a slight blush suffusing her cheeks, and Spike suddenly remembers a night long ago when that blush had almost made him forget Drusilla. How much water has flowed under the bridge since then.

“Yeah, she mentioned that.”

It stings a bit, that Tara said that to Willow, but Spike lets it pass. He couldn’t very well have expected the girl to lie and build him up, not when she was trying to patch things up with the woman she loved. Besides, there’s something in the fact that she thought him important enough to tell Willow about that makes him feel that same sense of being _real_ that he did the night Tara shared his bed.

He wonders what else she told Willow, if she told her _why_. That’s a question Spike himself longs to ask. It’s a mystery that still haunts him through it all and he’d give anything to learn the answer.

Somehow, Willow seems to know what he’s thinking. “She didn’t tell me much. Just that it happened, that it wasn’t your fault, and that it wasn’t... well... that it didn’t make her want to head back to Boystown for a return visit.”

She reaches out and puts her hand over his.

“But I know it meant something, Spike. Because Tara didn’t do things like... She didn’t cheat or lie or give herself away cheaply. Whatever the why was, there _was_ a why, and it was important, and _you_ were important. Because that’s who Tara was. And it hurts, because I want her to just have been mine.”

Tears are shining in Willow’s eyes and Spike finds himself seeing her the way Tara must have seen her, the beauty, the passion, the devotion she reserved for the ones she cared about. He sees all the love Willow still feels for “her girl” and for a moment he’s nearly consumed by jealousy. But then he remembers those kind, gentle eyes and he knows that Tara was a more than worthy object of that kind of adoration; he’s glad that Willow was there to give it to her.

He wonders if that girl upstairs, the one with the pierced tongue who’s going after Willow great guns, sees the girl Tara loved. Maybe she just sees the magic and a warm, womanly body to take away the cold of impending death. None of his business, he supposes. Willow should, by this time, be able to look after herself and make her own choices. Still, he owes Tara something for that night, for the sweet kiss that he never got a chance to return, for the touch of her hand on his cheek, for seeing him as a good man when all anyone else saw was a soulless demon.

His arms encircle the now sobbing witch as she pours her grief into him, holding onto him for dear life. As much as she might hate him for having shared something with Tara, however meager it was, he knows he’s also the only one who can even come close to understanding just how special the girl was and that the Tara-shaped hole in Willow’s heart can never be filled. He gets the feeling that he’s the only one who’s seen this, this pain and raw anguish, this terrible, horrible emptiness she feels without her love. So he holds her, and he keeps on holding her, and a part of him wonders if maybe this is somehow the answer he was looking for.

  
The End.


	3. Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas and Tara is gone.

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

There’s some sort of makeshift Christmas nonsense going on upstairs, a pathetic attempt to pretend that they’re all not more than likely going to die a horrible death at the hands of the First Evil sometime soon, but Spike’s got no inclination towards being a part of the charade. He wonders how any of them can believe in God, or even commerce, at this point. As for him, he isn’t sure he believes in anything and not even the figure of Buffy in a Santa hat can lure him up from his lonely room. He’s not interested in enduring all those squalling, almost-Chosen, teenage brats alternating between feigned normalcy and ridiculous arrogance just for a glimpse across the sea of chaos of a woman who doesn’t love him and never will.

Besides, tonight he’s not so lonely.

He looks down at the face of the witch as she smiles ever so slightly, sleeping peacefully on what passes for his bed. She’s down here more and more often of late. Maybe she’s clinging to him as the closest reminder of Tara she has left. Or maybe she’s just running as far as she can from that cocksure predator upstairs with the pierced tongue and the inability to understand when she’s not wanted. It doesn’t matter. It’s not as if Spike will turn Willow away no matter what her reason for being here is.

Maybe he’s looking for something, too - something taken by a bullet in the blink of an eye, something with soft hands and kind eyes and a gift of understanding that was so full of healing. He wonders if she gave him that gift somehow when she touched his cheek that last time, because while he’s watching the eyelids of Tara’s love flutter as she dreams, he thinks maybe he really does get it - why she’s here.

Or maybe not. It’s possible he just _wants_ to understand, _wants_ to have some piece of Tara within him, wants to _be_ that thing that the world is so much poorer and sadder without.

Think of something else. Anything else.

It’s funny though, that the one thing he has to work hard to think of at this moment is Buffy. There’s a girl sleeping in his bed right now and he doesn’t wish that the hair glowing copper in the thin strands of light making their way weakly into the room was golden blonde. He’s happy with the red locks resting against his pillow. It’s enough, maybe more than enough, and he feels less alone with this girl slumbering while he sits watch over her than he would if Buffy were here, wide awake. He doesn’t have to wonder why that is; he knows. He isn’t quite sure how he feels about that knowledge, but there it is and it’s not going anywhere.

Willow stirs and her eyes open. He sees the sadness in them and he knows what (or rather who) was in those dreams she just left behind. He knows she never sleeps for long enough. She never will. Not until she goes to sleep for the very last time.

“Spike.” She says his name as if it’s a book of secrets.

His hand as it brushes a lock of hair away from her face is all his answer. She’s beautiful and he wonders why he never noticed that before Tara went away. Or maybe he did; he just never saw that beauty quite this way. Tara’s eyes saw clearer than most; he knew that before, but he knows it better now.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“About an hour.” He doesn’t need to look at a clock. Vampires are creatures of time. Funny that he never really thought about _that_ before, either. It seems so important now. What could be the reason for that?

“I’m sorry.” She always apologizes, and he always wonders why. Perhaps someday he will ask, or maybe they’ll all die soon and it won’t matter anyway. Should he be frightened of how certain he feels that he won’t live through this? Of how little he worries about that same certainty?

“No need. I liked having you here. Sort of got lost in the quiet, couldn’t hear a bit of that racket upstairs while you were sleeping.” It’s true, actually, and very strange, now that he thinks of it. The din registers _now_, but before...it was as if he and Willow were the only people in the house, maybe even in the world.

That would be a wonderful world.

At last, a thought that _does_ scare him, coming out of nowhere and something he doesn’t understand at all. He never _thinks_ about Willow and today doesn’t seem a good time to start. It’s easier to just let her happen, to allow her to occupy this place in his life without one moment spent on contemplating what that place might be.

Tara, what on Earth did you do?

One night - one, clumsy, awkward night - and now nothing is the same no matter how hard Spike tries. No matter the heat he’d forced into his passion for Buffy, no matter the soul, no matter that Tara’s gone. She’s here, still here somehow and nothing makes sense. As bad as that is, however, what Spike most fears is that things _will_ make sense and it will be too damn late.

“No one’s ever thought of me and quiet at the same time.” Willow tries to smile as she lies.

“No one?” Spike calls her on the untruth.

“Maybe someone. A long time ago.” Her voice catches and she squints hard to hold back the tears. He wishes she’d let go, that she’d realize that her grief is still safe with him. But she doesn’t cry, at least not since that first day when she gave him the necklace. He wears it constantly now. Funny that no one has noticed, no one but Willow, anyway. She notices everything.

No one notices her, though, at least not the way she needs to be noticed. That Kennedy girl - all she notices is power and smooth skin and need she can’t begin to comprehend, let alone assuage. Spike notices, though, at least he realizes that now, and he just hopes she can keep holding out. Tara loved her - still does, he’s sure, wherever she is - and he knows she’d want more for Willow than some too-young upstart with more ego than heart.

“They are pretty loud, aren’t they?” She’s changing the subject a bit, but Spike doesn’t try to steer her back.

“Loud? They make enough noise to wake the dead. The _truly_ dead, I mean.” That gets a bit of a grin out of her and he’s pleased with himself.

“Is it just the noise or does the whole Christmas thing bother you, too?” There’s that odd look on her face again, the same one she had when she said his name a few minutes ago and Spike wonders if he’ll ever understand this girl.

“Guess we both know I’m not much of a Christian.”

“Me, either.”

“Yeah, the whole Wicca thing, and, well, you’re Jewish, right?” He sounds flip, he knows, and he’s not sure why until he sees her response to his question.

She snorts and something like bitterness flashes in her eyes. He seems to have struck a nerve; for some reason, that bothers him. “And that would make you the only person who remembers that fact. I’m supposed to get behind this whole Christmas thing and not one person bothered to wish me Happy Hanukkah. They never do, they never have, not even back in high school.”

“Maybe they just don’t think you celebrate it anymore.”

“Or maybe they just don’t think.” There’s more to this bitterness than her being upset at a seasonal slight and Spike knows it. Should he ask? Or should he just let her say what she’s comfortable with? Tara would know what to do, but she’s not here, and if she were here, Willow wouldn’t be sad in the first place.

Why _isn’t_ she here? He wonders about that as he ponders what they’re supposed to be celebrating upstairs. Back when he was human, he prayed and he believed and he took faith seriously. He doesn’t believe, _can’t_ believe, not anymore, not with Tara lying cold in the ground and creatures like him here forever and infinite evil about to swallow the world whole. Somehow, though, he thinks that if there is a God, that God respects him more for his honesty than those hypocrites above playing ducks and drakes with the trappings of something that was supposed to be holy.

Willow’s voice breaks into his reverie.

“I’m sorry,” she says for the umpteenth time, _apropos_ of nothing that Spike can see, but she’s in the habit of apologizing, so she does. At least that’s _his_ take on things.

“What are you sorry for?” He finally decides to chance asking that question. Perhaps there is a something, but even if there isn’t in this instance, he’ll have asked. When all is said and done, it will be something - meager and small, but something - that he didn’t put off until it was too late.

Once again, her reply is a _non sequitur_. “You know, I only dream of her with you.”

That’s a stunner, or it should be. But somehow it feels like something he already knew - that the two of them share the custody of Tara’s memory and it’s so much more real when they’re together - that maybe she’s almost alive when it’s the two of them alone like this.

“Was wondering why you seemed to fancy my company so much these days.” What else can he say? The truth won’t fit into words, at least not into words he has the courage to speak.

“That’s not why I come down here. I wouldn’t use you, Spike, not even to see her again. I wouldn’t.” She’s sitting up now, looking at him, all the emotion in the world shining from her eyes, her voice a plea that cuts into his heart.

He knows what lies unspoken but just as deeply felt as what she’s said out loud: ‘I’m not Buffy.’ And she isn’t.

“You know I wouldn’t do that, right, Spike?”

“Shhh, pet. I know you wouldn’t.” He believes her; he hopes she knows that. Because it’s true. He looks into those eyes and he sees power and purity and honesty: all the things that Tara loved and that he...respects. Yes, that’s what it is, it’s respect and it’s honour, because it has to be. She is still Tara’s girl...Tara’s girl.

There’s silence again and once more the sounds from upstairs seem to fade into nothingness. His arm is around her now and her head is on his shoulder. Her hair is soft, like Tara’s kiss, and he longs to stay in this moment until the end of the world.

“Happy Hanukkah, Willow.”

It happens then. His lips against hers. It’s as sweet as that last kiss he shared with Tara though he’s even less sure what it means. He doubts that Willow knows any better than he does. The kiss goes on until the noise from the contrived celebration breaks through again. She says nothing, silently making her way upstairs, leaving him truly alone. He waits for her to turn around, to return, but the minutes turn to hours and she is still gone from him.

She will come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, but this kiss won’t be mentioned. Still, it won’t be forgotten either, and that is something. It’s just not time yet, and sadly, he won’t be here when it is. He’ll see Tara before Willow does; he knows that. One more cruel and terrible injustice that he can do nothing about, no matter how much he’d like to...oh, how much he’d like to, though.

For a moment, he thinks of snapping Willow’s neck when next he sees her, of sending her home to her girl ahead of him, the way it should be, but he can’t do it. He’d like to say it’s because he has his soul now, and maybe it is, though probably not in the way that he wishes. But more than anything else, it’s selfishness, because he can’t make himself let her go, not even for Tara.

Now he’s the one who’s sorry.

The End.


	4. Distant Hoofbeats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Set post-Season Seven. NO comic canon* It's Christmas and Spike goes to Brazil in search of Willow.

Distant Hoofbeats

  
The world was saved months ago, and with no small amount of help from Willow. So why has it taken Spike so long to come looking for her? To find out why she disappeared in a burst of white light when the battle was over. Why she didn’t say goodbye. Why she didn’t say hello.

It’s now or never though, he realizes as he walks through the door of the bar. Rio de Janeiro. There’s a certain irony in being back here, and it’s not lost on him. Hell, it nearly sends him walking back out the door and straight to the airport for a flight home. But no, it’s just an excuse. He knows what’s really the problem. He simply doesn’t want to give it voice, even in the recesses of his thoughts.

She’s knocking back some dubious looking brew at a table in the corner and for a moment he stares, enjoying his advantage – knowing she’s here before she knows he’s about. Then her eyes find him and he realizes he never had the advantage at all. He keeps forgetting she’s a powerful witch. To him, she’ll always be Willow.

He saunters over with his best what-a-coincidence-fancy-meeting-you-her

e expression on his face. She sees through it, he’s sure, but he’s hoping she’s polite enough to let him get by with it.

She isn‘t.

“So,” she says the moment he sits down across from her, “Why are you here?” He can see the lines tighten around her eyes. She’s angry. As much as he dislikes it, he can’t really blame her.

“You’re not gonna buy that I just happened to be in the neighborhood, I suppose.” She shakes her head stiffly. “No, thought not.” He sits for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts, which elude his grasp and roll like marbles hither and yon. “I wanted to thank you.” Of all the things he could have said, it’s the one containing the least amount of truth. He regrets saying it the moment he speaks the last word, even before she reacts.

“You could have sent a card. It’s obvious you know where I live. Or doesn’t Hallmark make cards that say ‘thanks for saving the world, sorry I didn’t care enough to let you know I came back from the dead’?”

“Technically speaking, I’m still dead.” Again, that was absolutely the wrong thing to say and she starts to get up. He grabs her arm, forcing her to be seated again or create a scene. He’s betting that, witch or no, she still hates scenes. This time, he bets the right horse. She sits back down. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Spike? For grabbing my arm? Or for not giving a damn about me?” Her eyes are full of pain as she stares at him. It’s funny that he’s not scared she’ll zap him with some spell. But he’s never been afraid of the witch. Willow, however? Well that’s another story, now, isn’t it.

“No,” he says, somewhat obscurely. “I’m sorry I never told you, but it’s not that I didn’t care, it’s just that…”

“That what? That you forgot how to dial a phone because of brain damage during your resurrection?”

“No…I just didn’t know what to say.”

“’Hi, I’m not a big pile of dust anymore’ would have worked.”

What is he supposed to say to that? She’s right. Except that not knowing what to say isn’t his only reason for not calling and he knows it. She’s bedded down with that arrogant, newly-minted Slayer twat now and…he still isn’t sure quite how he feels about that. What he says, however, is, “Yeah, I should have called.”

“You should have. Do you know how I felt when I showed up there in that alley and saw you? If I hadn’t been there to save the world…” There are tears in those green eyes now and he hates himself for putting them there.

He reaches across the table and puts his hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away. There’s a feeling of elation inside him that shouldn’t be there. “I know, pet. I’m sorry. Maybe that doesn’t mean much, but it’s what I have.”

“I’m glad you’re alive, well, _undead_,” she says after a moment so long Spike isn’t sure it wasn’t an hour.

“Me, too,” he says, trying for levity and missing by a mile. “So, you and Kennedy…?” He’s asking the question. Of course, he’s not at all sure he wants it answered.

“Yeah, me and Kennedy,” she replies.

“So where is she?”

“Celebrating Christmas with some other Slayers.”

“And you?”

“Jewish-Wiccan, remember? Not so big on the whole Christmas thing.” He can tell by the look on her face that she’s recalling that night in the basement – the night they ran away from Santa and loneliness together.

He remembers that night like it was yesterday. Funny that he hadn’t recalled tonight was Christmas…or had he, deep down?

“I’m sorry.” What else can he say? It’s a lie of course. The super-powered brat is the last person on Earth he wants to see and he couldn’t be more overjoyed to hear that she’s flexing her muscles with a group of her own tonight.

“Are you?” He’d forgotten how shrewd she is, how easy it is for her to see through him.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He’s vague now, waffling, hiding behind indecision.

“You never liked her.”

“No, I never did. But my opinion isn’t what matters now, is it?”

“Why?”

He says the first thing that comes to mind, though he is positive he shouldn’t. “She isn’t Tara.”

To his surprise, Willow is deflated, not angry. “No, she’s not Tara.”

“So what’s the point then?” Stupid thing to say, really. As if _he’s_ ever done well by himself when picking out lovers. He thinks of Buffy and suppresses a shudder. The pain of that still burns along the edges of his soul.

“There’s never going to be another Tara.” It’s funny, but there’s something about the way she says that…something that scares him for all the same reasons that he never reached out to her when he was brought back.

“Yeah, but…”

“But it was too soon for there to be…I needed to not be alone, you know? It was too soon…too soon…”

He gets it. He really does. “You needed someone safe. Someone you were never going to love like that. Someone to take the edge off the ache and make it a little less cold inside, right?”

Her eyes are shot through with recognition and it’s not a moment later that she crumbles. “I’m a bad person, aren’t I?”

It takes him a minute to realize what she means, but he figures it out at last. “No. You’re human, that’s all.”

“But…”

“But nothing. The girl knew, or she should have, and that’s the same thing, really. Would be worse if you’d actually fallen for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Be an insult to Tara’s memory, now wouldn’t it?”

She smiles slightly before she realizes what she’s doing, but at least he sees it before she schools her expression into something carefully neutral. “Spike,” she admonishes. “She’s not that bad.” Silence for a moment. “But no…not Tara.”

“Not even Oz,” he says.

“No…she’s not Oz either.” He had expected some sort of ham-handed defense involving the differences in gender, not a reply indicating that she understands his meaning and concurs. It sets him back a bit.

“Speaking of which…ever hear from the wolf?”

She shakes her head and there’s a something in her eyes that says he needs to abandon this line of questioning. Spike, however, has spent more than a century crossing lines and doing what he shouldn’t. “What’s that shake of the head mean?”

“It means I haven’t heard from him.” Testy and off-putting, hers is a tone that brooks no further discussion. Too bad.

“I’m guessing you tried to get in touch with him.”

She stares at him angrily for a moment, eyes locked with his, trying to make him look away. He doesn’t. She can’t play this game with a predator and win; she should know better. “I sent him a letter. Not a ‘hey let’s get back together’ thing or anything because, hello, gay now, but…”

“No answer?”

“None.”

“Maybe he didn’t get it.” He knows that whether it’s true or not, Willow won’t believe that. Underneath the powerful witch will always be the girl who sees herself as just not good enough…Spike hates himself for being glad of that, but he can’t help it. That’s the girl he…

Loves.

It’s not an epiphany he needed to experience. It’s the lump of coal in the stocking he didn’t hang by the chimney he doesn’t have to celebrate a holiday he stopped believing in the day he met Drusilla in a dark alley…Drusilla, who left him in Brazil.

Life is too bloody circular, not that he wasn’t already of that mind as he boarded the plane that brought him here – first class, of course, since Angel is footing the bills.

“Maybe we should get out of here. Got Wheetabix, Cadbury’s, and some decent whiskey back at the hotel.”

“Are you trying to pick me up, Spike?” she asks, her voice artificial and arch.

“I don’t know, pet. Would I have a chance if I were?” He decides to play this game with her and see what happens.

“You’ve got the wrong parts, mister.” She says it in that too emphatic way she always talks about being gay, as if loving Tara was about gender and not being. Maybe it helps her justify staying with Kennedy.

“Well, let’s call it two old friends celebrating not celebrating Christmas, then.”

“Okay.” She gets up, faking an exuberance he knows she doesn’t feel. It’s an exuberance she hasn’t felt since the day a bit of stray metal ripped a hole in her soul.

He leaves some cash on the table to pay for her drink or maybe she already paid and it’ll be a tip. Who knows? Who cares? It’s the poof’s money anyway.

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” he says, dredging up the expression from somewhere in his past.

He takes her arm as they make their way out the door and holds her hand once they’re outside. If there are crowds or even another soul besides the two of them out and about tonight, he can’t see them. The warmth of her skin and the feel of her fingers have him completely befogged. It’s a damn good thing that the shade of his demon and the aura of her magic keep them unmolested on their way to his hotel.

“Nice,” she says as they enter his room. It’s more than a slight understatement. Angel’s credit card has booked him the penthouse at the poshest place in town. But Willow’s not one to ooh and ahh over lavish appointments.

Cadbury bars are another story.

He breaks out his stash and spreads them out on the table in front of the couch where she’s sitting, legs tucked beneath her, looking for all the world like the schoolgirl she hasn’t been for a very long time.

“Oooh!” she squeals, reaching for the one and only Crunchie bar he has left. He sits down beside her and grits his teeth, deciding it’s not too much to give and making a mental note to order more in the morning...charging the delivery to Peaches, naturally. “Mmm.” She has a gloriously rapt expression on her face as she eats the chocolate.

Spike picks up a Dairy Milk bar and unwraps it carefully, trying not to think about how tight his jeans are after that moan of hers. “I take it it’s been awhile since you’ve had proper sweets, eh?”

She blushes, seemingly embarrassed by her behavior. The Crunchie bar is already gone. “Thanks, Spike. That was yummy.”

“My pleasure, pet. Heathens like us have to stick together.”

She looks at his neck, seeming to notice something for the very first time. “You’re still wearing it.” Her voice is soft, barely audible.

He had wondered how long it would take before she mentioned it. Tara’s necklace. The one she’d given him to remember the girl by. Yeah, he still wears it every day.

“I never take it off.”

“She…she’d like that.” The tears are back, trembling in her eyes. “I miss her…I still miss her so much.”

“Me, too,” Spike says. “She’s special, your girl.” He avoids the past tense. Tara is too real for that.

“She is,” Willow sniffles, her voice choked with longing for what will never be _here_ ever again.

They sit in silence for a few moments, lost in memories.

“I remember, you know?” she says randomly…or maybe not so randomly.

He thinks he knows what she means. But he’s wary and plays it safe. “What do you mean, pet?”

She looks at him for a few seconds, her eyes begging him to let her off the hook, to fill in the blanks for her. He can’t. “The kiss. I remember.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I thought about it. A lot. All the time.”

“Bad thoughts?”

“Naughty thoughts,” she whispers. Now that is a surprise. “It was wrong. You’re not…and…it was too soon…and…I just couldn’t.” She’s pleading with him to understand and he tries to make sense of her fractured rambling so that he can.

“You were worried because I’m not a girl?”

“Tara was always afraid that I’d head back to Boystown, you know? Not so much later, maybe, but at first, yeah.”

He could leave it at that now, eat some more candy with her, break out the whiskey, reminisce about Sunnydale for a bit, then send her home to Wonder Woman. Play it safe and be heart-whole when the smoke clears. Or he can ask her what she meant by too soon.

Spike has never been one to play it safe.

“So, you said it was too soon?”

“You caught that, huh?” Her voice trembles like the hand now reaching for another chocolate bar. Dairy Milk this time. He feigns a hankering for the same one and their fingers touch.

Their eyes lock and suddenly the whole world is green, because that’s all he can see.

His hand moves underneath her chin and turns her face just so. Why he’s doing this now, he’ll never understand. She knows what’s about to happen, but she doesn’t shift even slightly. It’s permission.

Spike kisses her.

Her lips are as soft as Tara’s, just the way he remembers, and it strikes him that maybe this is what Tara gave him all those years ago. Maybe that night she knew somehow that she’d be going away and she wrote her last will and testament in virgin’s blood and butterfly wings, bequeathing him the only thing that mattered to her.

It seems an eternity before they part, but the kiss ends and Spike isn’t as sure as he almost was.

“I’ve got the wrong parts,” he says, giving them both an out…the last one that won’t shatter him.

“No. I mean, I know I said that, but…no.” She pauses for a moment, but seems to need to elaborate, so she does. “I mean, there was Xander and then Oz and even that crush on Giles, so…no.”

He’d like to ask about that last bit, but he’ll lose the courage to say what he needs to say next. “I’m not Tara.”

She’s surprised and her eyes seem as wide as the sea. “No, but…” There’s a struggle as she tries to find the words to say something. Spike only prays they aren’t the ones that will leave what he’s managed to repair since Hurricane Buffy rent and ruined. “You’re Spike.”

“And?”

“And I think maybe I’m ready for that now. I think maybe, if I could ask Tara, she’d say it’s okay. That I can…” Her voice drops to near inaudibility. “That I can love someone now.”

If it were possible, he’d have sworn he felt his heart beat. Maybe it’s Willow’s heart he felt. Because she’s in his arms again and now there are no shadows between them. It’s only Willow in his arms and her kiss is nothing like Tara’s and he likes that even better. There’s only two of them on their way to the bedroom. There will only be two of them there in the morning.

As much as he’s sure it’s not possible, he thinks he sees Tara smile and walk away.

  
The End.


	5. Into the Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Set post series, no comic canon at all* Spike and Willow share their first night together.

Into the Sunset

 

As right as it is, there's still a certain awkwardness. He's not surprised, really. For all that they've known each other for years, this is a moment where they're almost strangers – two people trying to find something familiar in a person who's transformed from friend into something completely unexpected.

He'd never expected to bed Tara, either, but that was alcohol and loneliness on his part and something fey and opaque on hers. His eyes never closed with her, nor hers with him. Theirs was not the fear of what the world would look like when they woke up.

It's different with Willow – and that's as it should be, but it's terrifying. Because Tara's gone – well and truly gone – and he sees Willow clearly. He thinks it's the same for her, at least he hopes it is. Will he be enough? Will she wake up tomorrow wishing she'd felt warm woman-hands against her skin and not the cool, calloused touch of a demon – a man?

She smiles at him. It's a soft, sweet smile. It's the smile of the girl in the fuzzy pink sweater with the lilac underneath. It's the smile of the girl in the dorm room consoling him through his 'impotence.' There's an ache inside him at that. She's a turning back of clocks, transformed into who she was when he knew her and there was no Tara, no Kennedy, no death and dark magick, no frenzied fucking with Buffy – when they were both lost and lonely and hurting and yet somehow never saw each other. This is the gift under the tree they don't have for the Christmas they're not celebrating. This is a second chance to get it right.

His hands are on her now, fingers trying to guess at skin through cheap cotton and denim. He's thinking that tomorrow, if the stores are open like back in the States, he'll take her shopping – what else is Angel's money good for anyway? Buying dog toys for Fido?

There's not much borrowed blood available to fuel thinking however, because he's pulling Willow's shirt over her head and what he sees has other parts of his anatomy clamoring for more than their share of it. She's pale and luminous in the soft light of the extravagant bedroom they're in. She's nothing like the Slayer, all sun-bronzed and lean muscle, but for all her pallor, there's the warmth of life that makes her nothing like Dru either.

"You're wearing too much, mister," she says, both mischief and a tremor in her voice. It's the tremor that makes him hard.

His own t-shirt is shed more quickly than hers as small, shaking fingers undo a bra and reveal more beauty to his gaze. She's perfect; she's absolutely perfect. Soft, white globes with pink nipples begging for him to suckle on them are no longer hidden by white cotton and lace. Clichés like 'you take my breath away' don't exactly suit, but they occur to him all the same. Somehow, though, he doesn't feel human, for all his soul and the poetry he thinks he'll want to write tomorrow.

It's good, that. He doesn't have to apologize for being a vampire with her –or for having a piece of William inside him. William transformed, but William all the same. He hopes she knows she doesn't have to apologize to him, not for anything – not for forgetting spells or will-be-done's or trying to end the world. They're damaged, both of them, and neither of them is simon-pure.

So why is it that with her, he feels as if he _is_ in some way? She's water washing over him, clean and bracing, taking away the filth of humiliation and mistakes and guilt, rinsing away everything but the truth of what is. He wants more than anything to give her this in return. To wrap it in himself like a gift and let her find it in his flesh as they touch.

His lips find hers. He can't think of any words that will tell her what she means to him at this moment, so he uses his mouth in ways older than language. There's honesty in this, maybe for the first time in all his existence. Spike knows better than anyone the lies one mouth can tell another without speaking.

The taste of Cadbury is mixed with hers and he smiles against her mouth. It's fitting. He thinks she would have tasted something like this way back when – sweets and spice and fire. He lets his tongue keep exploring and she moans, fingers digging into his back as her ardour builds in response to his. Hands moving to the clasp of her jeans; he's surprised at the ineptitude of his fingers, but they get the job done. Push down – jeans and knickers – body wriggling – feet caught. He holds her up when she nearly trips getting out of these, the last of her clothes. It's a blessed levity, and the laughter makes this more comfortable for them both.

"It's been awhile," she says. It's a strange thing for her to say and if he didn't know her – _really_ know her – he'd be insulted by what sounds like a lie. After all, there's that 'bird in the hand' off partying with her own kind. But he knows what Willow _means_. Is it wrong that his chest puffs out, peacock proud? Too bad, that, because it does and that's that.

"Me, too," he says. It's true for him in the same way it's true for her. Nothing he did with Harmony could be called intimate in any language, not even the crudest of demonic tongues.

She gives him a coy, saucy look and he feels fingers at the buttons of his jeans. He's unsettled by the sureness and dexterity in those hands, but there's something about it that takes away the last of his doubts. She wants him. She wants _him_. She knows what she's doing and she's comfortable with her choice.

"I love you," she says softly.

"Love you, too, pet."

He pulls down his jeans and steps out of them, mirroring her confidence with his own far smoother disrobing. She gasps, though she tries to suppress it. The Cheshire Cat he is, smiling as he sees a feast of cream and tarts before him.

Her hand is in his now and he guides it to his cock. This is real.

Her touch is delicate, but he can tell the difference between that and trepidation. She's a good student and she's taking her time relearning this. It may be like riding a bike, but after all, a rusty cyclist isn't ready for the Tour de France at first go.

Stroking, caressing, her touch is almost reverent and it takes him somewhere he's never been. _This is making love_, he realizes with a shock, and it's like being a virgin again. Centuries of experience and it's all fog and smoke – she's the teacher now, the one who knows what she's about. Awareness like a jolt of electricity runs through him.

_She's done this before_.

If it weren't that it had been with Tara, he'd want to rip out the entrails of her partner. But he can't hate Tara, and he can't begrudge the girl one moment of the time she spent with Willow.

Her hands are moving up his body now, learning more of him, exploring, teasing. He returns the favor.

_Soft_.

That's the first thing he thinks as he touches her skin. Clichéd metaphors comparing her skin to silk or satin come to mind, but he quickly discards them. They're both inadequate and inaccurate. She feels like nothing he's ever touched before. She's soft like _Willow_ and nothing else in the history of creation.

His fingers ghost over her breasts and he can hear the hitch in her breath as his eyes follow where his hands lead. Every part of her is exquisite.

Standing isn't working anymore, so he takes her hand and leads her to the bed. She's shy, all of a sudden, and he's glad of that. It gives control back to him. His eyes never leave her as she lies back on the clean, smooth sheets. She's trying for uninhibited, but the tension in her limbs gives her away as she strikes a provocative pose.

"No need for that, pet. You're sexy without all that Playboy nonsense." And she is. The sort of artifice he'd found alluring in Dru and Buffy just doesn't suit Willow. Maybe he's matured or changed or something. No idea, really; he just knows that she was sexier with her legs tucked under her on the couch, biting into a bar of chocolate than either of those other two were decked out in little scraps of lace artfully displaying themselves on his bed.

She sits up, seeming downcast and embarrassed suddenly, and he knows she thinks she just got an 'F' in feminine allure. She needs to look below his waist for a moment; she'll figure out that she's definitely _not_ a failure at arousing him.

He climbs onto the bed beside her. "You're beautiful, Willow. And sexy as hell. Don't you ever doubt that."

She doesn't say a word, but the caress of her hand against his cheek speaks volumes, as does the slow, upward curve of her lips. His heart feels like it could burst. When she kisses him, sweet and long and full of passion, he thinks it does.

She pulls him down with her as she lies back down and he's half-atop her, the sensation of her thigh against his cock an indescribable thing. If it feels this intense now, how will he even survive being inside her? Still, if he turns to dust, he'll die happier than he ever did in Sunnydale.

Is she ready for this? He knows _he_ is. Truth is, he's wanted to be buried inside her since she took that first bite of his Crunchie bar – and a long time before that. His hands move over her body, exploring again, teasing, touching. He can smell her arousal, thick and heavy, and the dampness between her thighs, but he still takes it slow, kissing her where his fingers have been, his mouth delicate and precise against her flesh, his tongue darting out to taste her skin.

He looks up at her face and sees her eyes narrow. Is she glaring at him? "This foreplay thing is really sweet, but can we save it for next time?"

His chuckle won't be stifled. Guess that answers his question. He positions himself between her legs and guides his cock to her center. She's eager, but he knows enough not to just thrust inside. She hasn't had a man since Oz and he's pretty sure he's got the mutt beat in the equipment sweepstakes anyway.

It's not just up to him, though. To his shock, he feels legs wrap around him and pull him in. She gasps and he can see lines of pain around her eyes for a moment. He wishes he'd made her wait. But then her eyes lock with his. "You feel so good inside me," she whispers, and he can see the honesty in her eyes.

They both stay still for a moment; he focuses on his own body and the sensations he's experiencing. She's hot and wet and so tight and he feels like she was made to suit him perfectly. He can't remember experiencing anything like this with anyone else, not even his first night with Dru, and they've barely begun. Where will he find the words to even _think_ about what the rest of their lovemaking is like?

No time like the present for finding out. He starts to move inside her, his pace measured, but not so slow that she'll try to take control – they'll save that for another time. He stares at her face as she finds his rhythm and moves with him, though it's all he can do to focus. He was right – there are no words for how glorious this feels. Buffy's heaven had nothing on being with Willow and he has a feeling Angel would trade his shanshu for just one night like this – not that he's going to be giving that wanker any ideas. He remembers what Angelus had planned for his girl and he's not taking any chances. Nope, no locker room stories when he and Willow run into his bastard of a grandsire again.

His body is on overload, the ecstasy building inside him, and he can't stop himself from thrusting harder and faster. It's okay with Willow, if the increasing volume of her cries is any indication. "Oh God, Spike! Don't stop."

He doesn't. He's too close to his own release for that. Wanting to be sure to take her over the edge with him, his hand moves between their bodies, finding her clit, stroking it, and…"Yes!" she cries out as she falls, tightening around his cock and making him shatter right along with her.

It's the most intense orgasm he's ever had. If vampires could pass out, he surely would have. He lies atop her for a moment, not wanting to break this connection. She's panting and he can smell tears. Has he hurt her?

Concerned he pulls out of her and lies beside her leaning over and looking into her face. Her eyes are closed and she's not speaking. "Willow, love. Are you alright?"

A few terrifying seconds pass before she opens her eyes and gazes at him. Her voice is lazy and low when she finally answers him. "I'm great."

"That you are," he agrees. She blushes – all the way down to her toes – and it astounds him that she can be so modest while she's naked beside him. It makes him love her all the more.

"Tired," she says.

"Then sleep," he answers. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Her brow furrows adorably as her eyes struggle to stay open. "It's your room."

"Yeah, but I'd be here even if it were yours."

"Okay." She smiles and rolls over on her side, her back to him. "Love you," she drawls sleepily.

"Love you, too," he says as he gets comfortable and pulls her against him. He doesn't know whether she heard him or not. It doesn't matter. It felt good to say it anyway.

He lets the soft sound of her snores lull him into slumber of his own.

 

The End.


End file.
